


Clip it Good

by lastSaskatchewanPirate



Series: Metaphorical Coffee [7]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Fluffiest Fluff Ever to Fluff, M/M, bad memories, non-sexy haircut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:14:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastSaskatchewanPirate/pseuds/lastSaskatchewanPirate
Summary: Megatron needs a haircut.  Rodimus has a suggestion.  Surprisingly, it all works out fine.





	Clip it Good

He was staring again.

Granted, this was Rodimus; staring at things seemed to be a fundamental component of his personality, regardless of whether or not he was actually paying attention to the thing in his line of vision. It seemed, though, that this was a rare case of staring at something and actually thinking about it – Rodimus was wearing an expression of unusual focus, his eyebrows were slightly scrunched together, and he was biting the tip of his tongue in a manner that someone else might have described as “endearing” or possibly even “adorable.”

Megatron, however, would be hard-pressed to admit to the presence of those two words in his vocabulary even if confronted with a refrigerator box filled with the fluffiest baby mammals available in that time zone, to say nothing of actually applying them to anything, even Rodimus.

The forehead scrunch was kinda cute, though.

For the sake of his self-esteem, Megatron promptly drop-kicked that thought into the proverbial round file and directed an inquisitorial eyebrow at Rodimus.

“Is there something on my face?”

“No.” Rodimus squinted at him a little more.

Megatron gave him a second, but further explanation failed to be offered.

“Are you staring at anything in particular?”

“Your hair is getting long.” Rodimus sounded vaguely surprised by the notion.

Megatron rolled his eyes. “Yes, it probably is. It tends to do that when it’s not been cut for a while.”

Rodimus stared a little more. “I can’t decide if it looks good or not.”

“Well, let me know if you figure it out.” Megatron returned to his book and his coffee. Rodimus returned to his dedicated scrutiny of Megatron’s hair.

The silence did not last. Silence never lasted long when Rodimus was in the vicinity. “Are you growing it long on purpose?”

“No.”

“Any reason you haven’t gotten it cut?”

There were several reasons, actually, but Megatron didn’t feel like discussing them in the middle of a coffee shop, and decided to offer the most banal of them in the hopes it would end the conversation. “Just hasn’t been a priority.”

“Hmm,” said Rodimus, and left it there.

*

Foolishly, Megatron had supposed that the topic of his hair and its current degree of shagginess was insufficiently interesting to hold Rodimus’s attention for very long. In a way, he was right – Rodimus did not bring it up again, though he did glance at Megatron’s hair more frequently as time passed.

However, Megatron himself was finding it more and more difficult to ignore his hair, as it was now long enough to start getting in his eyes. The last straw was the realization that he’d started to adopt an unconscious head twitch in order to flip it out of his face, which … no. Just no.

Unfortunately, “just no” was also a pretty accurate summation of Megatron’s response to setting foot inside any kind of hair salon, barber shop, style emporium, or whatever else the fuck you wanted to call it; and while he could technically do it himself, his options in that case were pretty much limited to the range of guard lengths for his clippers.

Megatron had mixed feelings about the clippers. On the one hand, he was technically in complete control of the enterprise. On the other hand, he had spent the first year or so out of prison mechanically giving himself the same quarter-inch buzz that he’d worn the entire time he was in prison. It had been something of a revelation to look at the clippers and realize that he didn’t actually have to shave his hair off. He wasn’t at risk of giving a potential opponent a hand-hold by letting his hair grow out. He wasn’t being forced to shave his head because of a potential outbreak of lice or scabies or whatever other excuse the wardens liked to come up with as an opportunity for a little extra humiliation. He wasn’t being forced to shave his head by anything other than dumb brute habit, and it horrified him to realize the depth to which some of those habits had sunk into his brain, how deeply prison had imprinted itself on everything he did.

Being out of prison was more than just privacy in the shower and a really good cup of coffee and the freedom to do whatever the fuck he wanted with his hair. Being out of prison meant unlearning the habits of more than half his lifetime. It meant that every moment, every interaction with the world around him, was a choice.

And, for a while, it meant choosing to let his hair grow out.

However, it was definitely reaching a stage that could only be described as “unkempt” by someone attempting to be really diplomatic. It was in his way. And it was really fucking uncomfortable now that the weather had seriously warmed up.

Megatron looked at the clippers in the drawer under the bathroom sink. He sighed, and closed the drawer again.

“I need a haircut,” he announced to Rodimus, who was curled up on the horrible couch with Ravage draped over his shoulders like a malevolent scarf.

“No shit, dude.” Rodimus continued sketching and didn’t bother to look up.

Megatron sat down on the other end of the couch, being careful not to jostle either Rodimus or the cat, and sighed again. “That’s not exactly a helpful response.”

Rodimus did look up at that, and offered a brief smile. “Sorry. I, uh. Kinda don’t really know what response you’re looking for, though. I know you hate hair salons.” Megatron had actually gone on at some length about the intensity of his dislike of hair salons. It had definitely left an impression.

“I do hate hair salons.” Megatron picked at the frayed upholstery barely sheathing the arm of the couch. “But since my other option is to just shave it off myself – which I don’t really want to do – I find myself in the position of needing a recommendation.”

“Oh!” Roddy’s brilliant smile lit up his face. Megatron resolutely did not think about the strange gooey-yet-fluttering-feeling that smile tended to produce in his chest. “That’s no problem – a friend of mine cuts hair. He and some of the party posse are gonna be at my place tonight, if you want to come over.”

That was actually kind of tempting. That also had the potential for almost catastrophic levels of awkwardness; but Megatron supposed he could always fall back on his usual lack of scintillating personal interaction skills and just leave if it became too excruciating.

“I … could do that, if he doesn’t mind.” A hideous thought occurred. “Unless this friend is Whirl, in which case – absolutely not.”

Rodimus actually blanched at the suggestion. “Oh fuck no, dude. No way in hell would I give Whirl a pair of scissors, can you imagine? He threw one of his hands at somebody in the grocery store last week, giving him scissors would be just inviting carnage.”

“Well, at least we agree on that.” Megatron rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced at the pull of too-long hair. “All right, then. I’ll talk to your friend tonight.”

*

Rodimus’s hair-cutting friend turned out to be Rewind, who had any number of advantages over Whirl in the trusting-with-sharp-objects category, and who was perfectly sanguine about throwing a towel over Megatron’s shoulders and getting busy with scissors in the middle of Roddy’s very active living room.

Currently, Rodimus and Drift were engaged in a heated debate over which movie to watch – it was apparently down to “The Screaming Skull” and “The Thing That Wouldn’t Die,” and détente was reached by means of Rewind mildly suggesting that they just watch both – and Tailgate was busy with Swerve mixing drinks in the kitchen. Rodimus did not have a particularly well-stocked bar, but Swerve was clearly expecting this and had come prepared; right now he was walking Tailgate through the process of assembling a Rum Runner.

Behind him, Megatron heard the soft rattle of Rewind setting aside his scissors, followed by the distinctive _click-buzz_ of clippers. Megatron’s shoulders tightened involuntarily, and for a moment the towel around his shoulders was replaced with a cheap plastic cape; the cheerful banter turned harsh, aggressive, antagonistic; the presence at his back a potential threat …

He took a deep, slow breath, and then another, and his surroundings reasserted themselves. Rodimus was laughing with Drift, the opening credits of a terrible B-grade movie in the background. The room was warm and dimly lit, most of the illumination coming from the television and from a handful of candles in punched-tin lanterns scattered on the worktable. Light from the kitchen fell across his shoulders, letting Rewind see well enough to work, and the smell of coffee and incense and whatever vaguely curry-like thing Rodimus had in the crock pot drifted in fragrant eddies through the apartment.

“Ready?” Rewind asked quietly, the hum of the clippers a tangible weight behind him, and Megatron nodded briefly and was still again.

Rodimus was watching, attention caught when Rewind spoke; and though he continued chatting with Drift, his eyes were on Megatron, and he was smiling – a warm, private little smile that threatened to set off that gooey-yet-fluttering sensation again.

Megatron cleared his throat and refocused his attention on the cinematic monstrosity churning its way sluggishly across the screen.

He did, however, smile back.

*

A loud _click_ announced the clippers being turned off, and then Rewind carefully gathered up the towel on Megatron’s shoulders to avoid dumping prickly fresh-cut hair all over him and the floor.

Rodimus, who had clearly been waiting for this moment, hopped up from his loose-limbed sprawl across part of the floor (and most of Drift) and bounced over to plop himself unceremoniously across Megatron’s thighs. “Hey there, handsome! Come here often?” He topped off the terrible line with a cheesy wink and a grin, but his hands were infinitely gentle as they brushed through Megatron’s hair from brow to nape, fingers lingering on the back of Megatron’s skull in the vulnerable dip below the occipital curve where the hair had been shorn down velvet-short. 

Megatron shivered.

Rodimus smiled that same warm, soft smile, and petted him again before shifting slightly on Megatron’s lap in order to drape one arm around his shoulders. Megatron’s arms wrapped around Roddy’s waist by their own volition, but somehow – surrounded by people, in a cluttered little apartment full of art and noise and terrible movies – he couldn’t find it in himself to feel the slightest bit of shame.


End file.
